


Un Indésirable

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Soulmates, Writing on Skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:12:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick doesn’t have a name on his wrist.  It takes him a long time to figure out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Un Indésirable

The first time Patrick hears the name "Unwanted," it's just after a pretty spectacular glove save. He's throwing the puck in the air to catch it again, grinning smugly, when the other centerman reaches out to grasp his wrist, wrapping his fingers around the small strip of skin between Patrick's glove and his Gouverneurs jersey.

"Un indésirable," the boy hisses, his voice low with black humor, his fingertips, calloused and rough, tearing at Patrick's skin. _An Unwanted_.

Patrick doesn't know what it means. He punches the boy anyway, a quick shot of his blocker to the facemask, and receives a game suspension.

He's twelve years old.

***

By the time he's nineteen, he's learned not to talk about the clear, unblemished skin on his left wrist. “It’s impolite,” his mother tells him at family functions; “Be a team player,” his coaches order, with their eyes trained on the little slip of skin that sticks out between glove and jersey.

No one knows why, sometimes, the naming fails. So, it’s probably a futile gesture when, two weeks before his draft, Patrick's father takes him to a naming clinic.

"Just in case there's something wrong," Michel explains, adding quickly, "Medically."

"You're fine, health-wise," the doctor tells them. "Otherwise, though-"

And, yeah, Patrick was already pretty sure that there was something wrong with him. Psychologically, emotionally, something off with his soul, whatever it is that keeps kids' soulmates from appearing in thick, block letters on their wrists.

"Is there anything we can do?" Michel asks, his brow creased in the way it does every time Patrick has a bad game.

The doctor shrugs. "No. Sometimes, the naming doesn't take. We don't know why."

Patrick knows why. "I am un indésirable," Patrick says, softly, the morning of the draft.

Michel grabs Patrick's left hand, shaking his head. "You're not. That's just an ugly word children made up on the playground. You're a brilliant hockey player, and you're my son." He pulls out a long, black box, handing it to Patrick. "Sometimes, the locker room can be a playground, non?"

It's a leather cuff, smooth, expensive, about an inch wide. It fits snugly against his wrist, covering the space where his name's supposed to be. Patrick runs his fingers over it, watching the Montreal Forum start to fill up, when he notices that his father mentioned hockey and family, but not love.

Mario Lemieux is drafted first overall, to the Pittsburgh Penguins. Patrick's drafted 51st, to the Montreal Canadians. Patrick's never liked the Canadians much.

***

Michèle isn't the most beautiful woman Patrick's ever met, but she is the fiercest. She's also funny and forward, and knows every one of Patrick's buttons to push. 

He meets her the week after he loses to the Flames in the '89 finals. He’s pretty drunk, feeling bad for himself, when she takes a seat at the bar and laughs at him.

"Don't you already have one of those things?"

"What?" Patrick asks her, startled. She runs her index finger over his '86 Cup ring, the one he's been wearing obnoxiously since his game six loss. "A Stanley Cup?"

"Yeah," she shrugs, showing him her teeth.

He takes her home that night.

Three weeks later, she slips her ring finger under his leather cuff. "Why do you wear this?" She asks. "Because if it's for my benefit, don't bother."

"It's not," he tells her, even though he wishes, sometimes, that he did have her name tattooed there.

"Good, 'cause I already know we're not soulmates." She holds up her own wrist and he wraps his fingers around it, tracing the blocky letters with his thumb. _Alexander_.

"Have you met him?"

She snorts. "He's the baker's son. We went to high school together."

"And?" He urges.

"And nothing." She shrugs. "He wanted to stay in our small town forever. I wanted to get out, see the world. We weren't compatible."

"I've never heard of that happening." 

"We set our own destinies, Patrick. Some name on my wrist isn't going to dictate how I spend my life."

"Yeah, I guess." He wouldn't know and, in its own way, he does let the smooth skin of his wrist dictate his life choices.

"I told you mine, now, show me yours," she needles, her eyes gleaming, her finger still playing under the leather.

Slowly, carefully, he undoes the cuff. The skin is paler than the rest of him, baby soft and slightly wrinkled, as she runs her fingers over it.

"Un indésirable," she whispers, somehow making the word sound beautiful.

He asks her to marry him three months later and she agrees. They divorce thirteen years after that, and he's not surprised that she goes back to her hometown to settle down with the baker's kid.

***

The divorce happens in 2003, a few months after his retirement. A few months after that, Patrick buys a big house in Quebec City and moves his family 2000 miles northeast of the city they had grown to love.

He invests in the Quebec Ramparts, and while he still spends his days at the rink, he doesn't don a catching glove for a well-deserved six-month break. Eventually, though, his brother, Stéphane, lures him into a Wednesday night beer league tryout.

"What? Afraid you're rusty, old man?"

Patrick reaches out to trip Stéphane with the butt of his goalie stick. Stéphane laughs, circling around to center ice, dekeing once, twice, left toe drag, and Patrick lifts his arm to catch the puck on the edge of his blocker.

From the stands, his sons stomp their feet and wolf whistle.

Happy he's still got it, he signs up for a weekly game. 

"I'm very happy with retirement," he promises the press in October, the night before his jersey is raised to the Pepsi Center rafters. "I still have hockey everyday, and now I actually get to play golf and be a father to my children."

A reporter for ESPN, one of the obnoxious ones with wire-rimmed glasses, a hooked nose, and the ESPN attitude that hockey isn't a real sport, reads, slowly, from his notepad. "You and your wife divorced this past summer."

Patrick shrugs. "That's not a question."

The reporter wrinkles his nose. "Soulmate divorces are rare."

That's still not a question. Patrick rises to the bait, anyway. "It wasn't a soulmate marriage."

The next morning, the Denver Post runs a picture of Patrick's retirement ceremony next to a blown-up image of the cuff he still wears around his wrist. "The man without a soulmate" is uttered alongside "Saint Patrick," and, neither confirming nor denying it, Patrick's never quite able to shake either nickname.

He doesn’t quite realize how rough retirement’s been on more than him until a week later, when his youngest fights with her mother, catches the public bus to Patrick's, and moves in, full time, to the finished basement he'd been saving for a billet. As the responsible parent, he relegates her to her room for a week; as her father, he's too relieved that she's there to resist when, that first night, she curls under his arm on the couch.

"Papa?"

"Yeah?"

Jana reaches out, pulling Patrick's left hand towards her and measuring her small fingers against his. "What happens if I fail the naming, too?"

"It's not something you can fail, sweetheart," Patrick promises her, even though he doesn't, quite, believe it himself. "Sometimes it just happens."

"Mama says it's sad not to have a soulmate."

Patrick's heart clenches. Not so long ago, Michèle was telling him that a soulmate was a choice, not a given. "I have you, coccinelle." _Ladybug_. He tickles her until she giggles.

Still, he's relieved when, on her fourteenth birthday, just as they're sitting down for cake, she gasps and holds her wrist up to show off the _Arielle_ sprawled across her left wrist. 

"She probably has buckteeth," Jon teases, always the older brother.

Jana's face falls. "No, she doesn't."

"I don't know," Jon shrugs. "With a name like Arielle-"

"Asshole," Fred chimes in, ever the middle child, elbowing Jon and placing a kiss on Jana's forehead. "Congrats, sis."

"Thanks." Jana's grin is wide, but, later, when the kitchen is clean and Fred and Jon are playing hockey in the yard, she curls up next to Patrick in the overstuffed armchair, like they used to when she was little.

"Is it okay?" She asks, cradling her wrist in her hand. "That I have a name, when you don't?"

Patrick catches her wrist and presses a quick, gentle kiss to the name. "Arielle is a very lucky girl."

***

In 2008, after three years coaching in the QMJHL, Patrick tells the press that he's not ready for a head coaching job in the NHL. Five years later, with Joe Sakic at the helm in Denver, his children all out of the house, and eight years of Major Junior coaching under his belt, Patrick stays mum with the press.

"You gonna take the job this time?" Stéphane asks, resting back against the grill and holding out a beer. It's a beautiful night, almost warm enough to be outside, and they’re bundled in sweatshirts, hats, and scarves to take advantage of it.

Patrick finishes flipping the hamburgers, then takes the beer. "I don't know yet."

From their seats at the picnic table, Jon and Jana share an exasperated eye roll. "He's being an ass about it," Jon calls out.

"Language," Stéphane calls back, before Patrick can.

"Sorry, Uncle Stéphane." Jon calls, sounding nothing like the 24 year old he is.

"He is, though." Jana argues. "Even Fred agrees - he sent Papa a really forceful text yesterday."

Sometimes, Patrick hates his children.

"What'd it say?"

Jana pulls out her phone to read it to her uncle. "Take the job. Im busy w/playoffs & dont have time 2 come 2 QC 2 force u."

Stéphane rolls his head to stare at Patrick, who shrugs. "He's a terrible texter, I agree."

***

Denver is exactly as Patrick had left it ten years ago. Up beat and fast-paced, a younger man's city made for bikers and hikers and skiers, filled with Elway jerseys and desperate to become a hockey town again.

"It's been a hard few years," Joe tells him on their drive back from the airport. 

Patrick glances out the window. There's an Avs bumper sticker on the car in front of them. "The fans are still here. If we build something, they'll come."

Joe grins. "I've missed you, old friend."

Under the same cuff Patrick’s been wearing since his draft, his wrist burns like, maybe, he’s bonded to this city in a way he never can to another person. He slips his fingers under it, pulling at the worn leather and easing his skin. "Not _so_ old."

"Not so young anymore, either. Just wait ‘til you see them play."

"I have the feeling my office is filled with game tape."

"Wall-to-wall," Joe agrees as he turns into the Pepsi Center parking lot. When he parks, though he leans forward conspiratorially. "I snuck a mini-fridge in, too."

Patrick laughs. It really is good to be home.

***

Patrick spends the summer watching game tape, skype-ing with his children, and looking for a house. Finally, the guys start tickling back into town in mid-August, and Patrick spends long days at the Pepsi Center, preparing for training camp and meeting with each of them individually.

He meets with Gabe first, back from Sweden with a tan, a cocker spaniel puppy, and a 3% higher muscle mass than last season.

"Coach," he greets, holding out his hand for Patrick to shake. 

They're in Patrick's office, but he comes around his desk to sit next to Gabe. "Patrick," he corrects. "I might be your coach, but this," he motions between their chests, "has to be a partnership, if it's gonna work."

Gabe eyes him, warily, for a long moment, then grins. "Dutchy said this would be great, but, after Coach Sacco, I wasn't sure." He shrugs. "I should always listen to Dutchy, he's way smarter than me."

"So I hear," Patrick deadpans, crossing his ankle over his knee. "Joe speaks highly of you both."

Gabe shrugs. "I'm young still, but I have things figured out much better than I did a year ago."

Patrick shrugs. "I appreciate the honesty." It's more honesty than he expected, in a first meeting.

"If this is gonna work, right?" Gabe parrots, in all sincerity. Patrick thinks that, just maybe, they’re building something special here.

He meets with Ryan O'Reilly next, to smooth over any ruffled feathers and make it clear that Patrick is part of a new regime.

"I want you here," Patrick says, first thing, and Ryan's eyes widen.

"Thank you."

Patrick shrugs. "You need to work on your strength, and I’d like to try you on Dutchy’s wing, but you're good, fast, and you have good hockey sense. That can't be taught."

Ryan nods and, at the end, meets Patrick's eye as he shakes his hand. "No hard feelings."

That taken care of, Patrick meets with Matt next. It's late August, and Matt's coming off an on-ice workout, his hair barely towel-dried and his cheeks still flushed with exertion. 

"Hey," Matt says, holding on to Patrick’s hand just a moment too long, his finger warm and sweaty in Patrick's palm. "Last time I saw you I was, what?, fourteen."

"A little boy," Patrick agrees. Matt is certainly not a little boy anymore. His eyes are wide and dark, peeking out from impossibly-long eyelashes, his shoulders a little too wide for his Avs shirt with his summer bulk, and the muscles of his thighs are strong and tight, even when he's sitting, relaxed, in Patrick's office. 

Patrick knows, immediately, that he's fucked.

Matt laughs, his mouth opening wide when he does it, dorky and full. "Yeah. I was so excited."

Patrick remembers him, fourteen and gangly, stammering as he asked Patrick to sign his jersey. Matt doesn't seem composed, exactly, but he doesn't seem star-struck anymore, either. Small miracles, Patrick thinks.

"You know, you were my childhood hero," Matt continues, winking at him. "And not just because you played for the Avs." 

Patrick expects him to say, _because you're the best goaltender to ever play the game_ , wants it, even. But then Patrick’s eyes are drawn to the way Matt is self-consciously fiddling with something at his wrist, the edge of a cuff, black leather, just barely visible.

"Un undesirable," Patrick breathes, just guessing. The cuff doesn’t, necessarily, mean anything, and Patrick doesn’t know if he’s more desperate to be wrong or right.

Matt flushes and pulls the sleeve of his shirt down. "You were my hero," Matt repeats, softer this time, more insistent.

Patrick's heart leaps, but he raises his eyes to Matt's, forcing himself to say, "I've been watching your tape from the 2011-12 season."

"Why?" Matt says quickly, then, more measured, "I don't play like that anymore." He lights up, distracted and passionate, when talking about hockey, just like Patrick guessed.

"I noticed."

"Look," Matt leans forward, his elbows on his knees, the muscles of his forearms bunching under his shirt. "I wasn't training right, wasn't eating right, and I wasn't playing well. I got injured a lot. But, I'm not that guy anymore."

"I know."

"Oh." Matt's shoulders slump and Patrick smiles. “Sorry, I just- the press ask a lot of questions.”

"Don't ever apologize for being passionate about the game. That's why we're here, non?"

Matt's face flushes, again, and he leans back, crossing his arms. Patrick can see the cuff peeking out of his shirt. He can’t look away. "Joe Sacco didn't trust me."

"I'm not Joe Sacco."

"No, you're not." Patrick feels like he's laid bare under Matt's calculated gaze.

"Bien. Now that we've got that settled-" Patrick pulls out a binder filled with new plays, and Matt's eyes brighten. He leans forward, brushing Patrick's shoulder with his own, his voice energetic and impassioned as he points out things that Patrick had missed.

This, Patrick thinks, must be what meeting your soulmate feels like. 

***

"Finally," Stéphane says, when Patrick calls him later that evening. "Someone who has enough hockey smarts to keep you on your toes."

"He's-" Patrick pauses, uncharacteristically lost for words. "He's like me," he settles on. “I think, at least.”

"As in- he's passionate about the game? He's a competitive asshole?"

"Yes, but," Patrick bites his lip, before forcing himself to continue. "He wears a cuff."

"Ahh."

"Ahh?"

"Yes."

"Helpful. I’m hanging up on you now.”

“Wait, Patty?”

“Yes?”

"Your voice, the things you’re saying- those are the kinds of things I told you the day I met Ali.”

"I don't have a soulmate."

"Just because you don't have a name, doesn't mean you don't have a soulmate."

Patrick- Well, Patrick's never thought about it that way before. He loosens his cuff, tracing his index finger, lightly, over the slightly warm skin. If he looks hard enough he thinks, maybe, he can see the outline of Matt's name. 

Stéphane laughs. "Oh, mon frère, talk to the kid. Get to know him. Do this the hard way. Shouldn't feel new to you, you're good at that."

"Thanks," Patrick deadpans. If he could, he’d trade his brother in for a better model.

***

Jana meets Arielle in her chemistry class in early September.

“Papa, she's amazing," she tells him, her voice lighter and happier than he's heard it since her naming seven years ago. "She 's funny and pretty and she actually knows chem."

Patrick laughs. "All the important things."

"Papa."

"Sorry." Patrick balances his phone between his chin and his shoulder as he digs through his desk for the thumb drive Joe dropped off the day before. "I'm happy for you, sweetheart. Why don't you bring her here, for Thanksgiving?"

"Really?"

Patrick pauses, taking a moment to click through his computer calendar to make sure that the Avs will be in town. "Of course. If she's going to be a part of your life, I want to meet her."

"Merci, merci."

"I'll send you the flight info."

He's just hanging up when there's a knock on the open door, and Patrick motions Matt in as he says, "je t'aime, ma coccinelle," and hangs up the phone.

Matt shifts, uncomfortably, in his flip-flops, his hands clasped behind his back. "Girlfriend?"

Patrick stills, and then, carefully, trying not to show how far off Matt is, sits on the edge of his desk. "Daughter."

Matt's shoulders soften. "Oh."

"She just met her soulmate."

Matt's eyes go wide, and his fingers touch, absently, at the cuff on his wrist. "Congratulations."

"Yeah," Patrick agrees, because he doesn't really understand what it means, either, won't ever be able to understand. "They're coming for Canadian Thanksgiving. You'll meet her then."

Matt smiles, tilting his chin down to hide it, and Patrick kicks himself for just assuming that Matt is part of Patrick’s family now.

“If you don’t-”

“I’ll be there.”

"Good.” Patrick tries hard not to read too much into it. “Did you need something?”

“Oh, right.” Matt looks grateful for the distraction, digging through his pockets and holding up a USB drive. "I borrowed this from your desk. Joe said I should watch it."

"I was just looking for that."

Matt rubs at the back of his neck. "Yeah, sorry about that. I was around and- Anyway, there's some good stuff from the Ducks game, if you want to watch it now. I could use a second viewing."

Patrick's hit, again, by Matt's dedication for a game that hasn't exactly been that good to him over the last few years. He’s not likely to pass up time with Matt, either, so he nods, leading the way to the viewing room, and taking a seat on one of the couches, a little closer to Matt than strictly necessary.

When Matt hits Patrick's knee to point out a play ten minutes in, his palm warm and heavy through Patrick's jeans, Patrick thinks that, maybe, he does understand how Jana feels after all.

***

Patrick invites the team to a potluck bar-b-que at his house two nights before the season opener. It’s a low-key affair, with a lot of meat and beer and soccer in the backyard of Patrick’s new house in the Denver suburbs.

“I have faith in you, in this team, in this season,” Patrick tells them, to woops and hollers and the clanging of bottles. They’re a good group, Patrick can feel it, the way he used to feel before important playoff games.

Later, when the families have left and the young guys are in the den, watching baseball and heckling each other, Patrick brings an armful of plates in from the backyard. Matt’s already in the kitchen, elbows-deep in dishes and soapy water. His cuff is sitting on the ledge above the sink. 

“You don’t have to do that,” Patrick tells him, as he digs through his cupboards for the extra-large garbage bags he bought just for this occasion.

Matt shrugs. “I don’t mind.” He starts stacking the dishes in the drying rack and, when the last one is placed precariously on top, he wipes his hands down with a dish towel and reaches, self-consciously, for his cuff. His wrist is pale, skin wrinkled and thin, just like Patrick’s, and Patrick can’t look away.

“Sorry,” Patrick apologizes, when Matt lifts his eyes to Patrick’s.

The cuff snaps and Matt drops his arm to his side. “I think, sometimes, of not wearing it.”

Patrick’s never considered it, definitely not while playing, and he only had to contend with newspaper, radio, and television. “It would be on Twitter or Instagram or whatever social media PR thing in an instant,” he says, overwhelmed just thinking about it.

Matt shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing, a good example to set.”

“You’re already a role model.”

“Thanks,” Matt flushes, high on his cheekbones. “But, not just for hockey, you know?”

Patrick understands, he really does, but, “You think the world’s ready for un player indésirable?” Nothing he’s ever seen has proven it.

Matt sighs. “If we don’t stop using that word, how can we expect anyone else to?” He reaches out, slowly, waiting for Patrick to stop him as he presses his fingers, just barely, under the edge of Patrick’s cuff. 

It’s a small touch, careful, short, but Patrick’s still shuddering long after Matt joins the rest of the guys in the den.

***

Arielle is quieter than Patrick expected, with a thick head of curly red hair and a sparkling laugh.

"I've been teaching her about hockey," Jana promises, when Patrick picks them up at the airport and asks if they’d mind a trip to the rink before settling in at home.

Arielle nods, brightly, but when they get to the practice center, she looks out of her depth, sitting on her hands on the bench, swinging her feet and looking around with wide, overwhelmed eyes. Patrick's just about to go over to her, when Matt pauses at the boards between drills, reaching past her for a bottle of Gatorade.

"You must be Arielle." Her eyes widen even further, and Matt smiles at her, charming and reassuring. "Patrick's told me a lot about you. And Jana."

"Are you Mr. Roy's soulmate?"

"I, ah, don't have a name." He doesn't, Patrick notes, say _no_.

"Really?" Arielle leans forward, her eyes lighting up with interested. "I've never met an Unwanted. Can I see?"

"Um." Matt pauses, but straightens his shoulders and holds out his wrist, flicking the snaps of his cuff.

"Wow." Arielle reaches out, running her hand along the air above his wrist. "Can I touch?"

Matt shakes his head, snapping his cuff closed again and dropping his arm to his side. "Sorry. No one's ever touched me there, and, um-"

"No, no, it's cool," Arielle says, quickly. "I'm just really interested in the psychological make-up of the Unwanted. I want to be a naming biologist, so, it's related." Her entire demeanor lights up when she talks about science and Patrick can see, instantly, why she’s meant for Jana.

"A biologist, really?" Matt raises an eyebrow, obviously impressed. "You must be smart."

She shrugs.

Matt laughs, looking up to catch Patrick's eye. "You're gonna fit into this family just fine," simple, straightforward, as if he has a say in a family that includes both him and Patrick.

Patrick blows his whistle to start the next drill before he can say something stupid.

***

"Can I ask you a question, Mr. Roy?" Arielle asks Monday evening, once most of the guys have gone home happy and full and needing a food-induced coma to be ready for their game the next evening. Matt's the only one left, but he's in the kitchen, cleaning dishes and organizing the fridge.

"Honestly, this would be easier if you weren't here," he had said, as he pressed beers into their hands and shoved them into the family room.

Arielle and Jana are sharing a couch, curled together and ostensibly sharing a bottle, although Patrick's pretty sure that Jana is asleep. 

"Sure." Patrick mutes the NBCSN.

She picks at the label on her bottle. "You don't have a name, but, you married Jana's mom."

"Ah huh."

She looks up, her eyes green and fierce and, for a moment, she reminds him so much of Michèle that he forgets where he is. But, then she smiles, all youth and potential and Patrick smile back, encouraging her. "Why?" she asks, simply.

Patrick shrugs. "I loved her."

"And, you love Matt, now."

It's not a question, not even close. 

She nods. "I thought so. But, how do you know?"

"That I love him?" Patrick clarifies, an admission as much as anything.

Arielle tangles her fingers in Jana's hair, threading through the knots that Patrick, himself, used to brush out at night before he read her a bedtime story. "Yeah. I mean, I love Jana, she's smart and passionate and accepts me for who I am, but I only know because it's written on our wrists."

Listening to Arielle talk, Patrick suddenly gets what Stéphane was telling him, almost two months ago, and he laughs, open and happy and, Jesus, he's been an idiot. "You would know, even if it wasn't written," he tells her, getting off the couch and squeezing her shoulder. "If you'll excuse me."

Matt's still in the kitchen, and Patrick leans against the kitchen island, letting his hip take his weight. "Matt."

"Hmm?" Matt asks, his head still in the refrigerator as he moves things around to make room for Thanksgiving leftovers.

Patrick undoes his cuff, letting it fall to the counter with a thump and Matt glances back at him, his whole body freezing when he sees Patrick's wrist, bare and paler than the rest of him. "I'm not going to wear it anymore," Patrick says, because, finally, at 48, he understands.

Matt's hands are shaking as he lets the refrigerator door fall shut and joins Patrick at the island. “Are you sure?”

Patrick doesn’t know how he could ever be more sure. “Yes.”

Matt holds out his left wrist. "Will you-? For me."

Patrick reaches out, cradling Matt's wrist in his palm. Matt’s whole body is shaking, and Patrick traces his hand, slowly, gently, over Matt’s fingers, his palm, following the vein down his forearm.

“Patrick,” Matt breathes, and Patrick returns to his wrist, cupping it to hold it steady as he undoes the cuff with a flick of his fingers. It falls to the counter next to Patrick's. 

"Can I?" Patrick asks, his free hand hovering over Matt's.

"Yes." Matt's voice is low, strangled. "Please."

Patrick traces Matt's wrist with his index and middle fingers, and Matt sighs, deeply, sinking into it. The skin is soft, wet, in desperate need of air to breath, and Patrick laughs, because he can do something about that now.

"My name should be here," Patrick says, tracing the letters P-A-T into Matt's skin.

Matt shutters. "It is. In every way that matters.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you want to chat about the Avs, rare pairs, or anything else hockey (or not) related comment here or find me on [ tumblr](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/)!


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